Wasted
by The.Clown.That.Smiles
Summary: He drinks to wash all the pain away.


_Disclaimer - Don't own the lost Boys_

_I seem to like being mean to Edgar, always by him losing Alan. In fact, I've been doing a lot of pieces like that lately, but it's really interesting exploring the emotions with Edgar through losing Alan. It's short, well, because it's short. _

* * *

He poured the shot, seeing the brown liquid drip down the glass. It was lifted, and he tipped it back, a small pull of the face coming. The glass was slammed down, a re fill instantly coming. The guy stared at him as he took it down again and, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, he put the glass down once more. It was filled, he drank, it was filled again and, having enough, the bartender slid the bottle towards him, where his hand shot out, fingers curling around it. The glass was slided across the counter, and he drank from the bottle instead, ignoring some of the stares he got from some of the men around him.

Music played in the background, the place stunk of stale tobacco and urine, but then it could have been coming from him. Sleeves were rolled up, hands were caked in filth, and a beard had taken over his features. That harsh, cold, look was still there, and he drank, just drank, drank all the feelings and the loss away. After taking a few more swigs of the whiskey, more like having it taken off him, he was given something else, something that made him pull a face.

''What is this shit?'' He spat it out, spraying it across the bar. ''I asked for strong stuff, you got that?'' He pushed the glass and bottle away, and moved his hand, telling him to get a move on. A look was given, but no words formed. He merely handed him something else, and grumbling something unintelligibly, he began to drink, only to be stopped by a shout from across the bar, more like three.

He turned slowly, face darkening, eyes slowly raking over the people. They stopped, a curl up of the lip was given, and his fists clenched involuntary. They stared at him, lazily sitting around in a group with lines of drinks all upon their table. They shouted more insults, and he felt that anger burn within.

_You're a fucking waster, Frog. _

Like he gave a shit what they thought of him. They were no better than fucking him. Wasters…They were fucking assholes.

_Your brother was no fucking better_

That, however, did, and the clench of fists came again. He turned back around, pouring himself another drink, pretending not to notice the look that was upon Bill's, the bartender's, face. Oh, yes, Edgar Frog had had some fights in his bar, and it never turned out nice. He was a fucking waster, a drinker, a dope smoker, and just a nothing to anybody. It hadn't always been that way. Bill remembered the good old days when he would stroll in with his brother, Alan; both with sullen faces, and the same comment would always be given by him.

''You two look like you've had to face death'' To which the response would be, ''something like that'' It was exactly fucking that, staring right into the eyes of fucking death every night, well, a drink was surely fucking rewarded at the end of it all. It was rare they went there, for a drink anyway at the least. Usually it was a can't be fucked too go to the shitty trailer, so they talked about shit, mostly vampires, there in the booth in the far corner where no one could hear them.

Edgar Frog hadn't sat in that space in years, and he had no intention on doing so again. It was all fucked up, just all fucking shit. He stayed here, there, and everywhere. Whatever place he could find, be it a bin, an alley, a god damn fucking field, but he always had the money for his sweet, precious, alcohol. That was the shit he needed, as it helped drown all that pain away, block out his face that he didn't want to see. Goodbye to the world of darkness, goodbye to the foul rot and stench of death, goodbye to his shit trailer, goodbye to his beloved comics, and goodbye…

Alan.

Edgar lost the will to fight and move, he lost the will to hunt, stalk, and kill blood suckers, and he lost all that will to keep up to date on his bills, to keep a hold of his stinking, crappy, home, and to keep a hold of everything he had, the little things that had some sentimental value. It was all fucking pointless; all of it was shit, just shit now Alan was dead. He was fucking gone, and there seemed no reason for it anymore. Not for the hunting and killing, not for the keep his ass intact, and save all those stupid, ignorant, people around him. The hunter he once had been was gone, buried away where it would not surface. He couldn't even shovel shit, let alone come face to face with a vampire anymore. Edgar Frog was a nobody, a waster, and just a tosser to those who knew the old him, heck, who knew him in general. He moved around with a look that made most steer clear, but behind the hardness in his eyes was a grief that threatened to rip him to pieces, and he drank and drank to wash it all away, to keep the memories somewhere cold, to keep him somewhere where he would not appear.

Why was it his fucking duty? Why was it his responsibility to save them, to hunt them, to kill…? No, that was all gone, washed away like a tear evaporating on skin. It was no to everything, it was a given up on all those things he once did, the things that made him the strong hunter, the one they all feared. Alan died and Edgar stopped. That night the stakes were never touched again, the crosses were destroyed, all things he had were either thrown away or given up on, given to someone who found a use of them.

He drank, drank all the pain of losing Alan away. He drank all those feelings of never to be. He drank for every little thing he had lost, and he drank to forget, to become numb, to be nothing but a shell. Because it hurt, it hurt so god damn fucking much, and he couldn't take it, didn't want to drown into all those feelings. It was all just pain when he appeared, when he would see, hear, and all those things that reminded, reminded him of Alan. It was better not to feel, to see, and to know, know he would never come back. The only time Edgar got close with Alan was when he floated to his mind, scratching and clawing, demanding not to be shut out, haunting him with those angered eyes. Edgar pushed, pushed him away, and the drink slid down his throat, and he slowly became numb. Alan backed away, disappearing once again, and his heart clenched painfully, but that relief swept through him. For that time, he didn't feel, and there was no hurt, there was no Alan.

There was nothing. It was just him, but that loneliness never left, no matter how much precious shit he sucked, no matter how much of that liquor poured down his throat. That was the one thing that never left, and it fucking hurt, it hurt so fucking much because he fought Alan away, he stomped on those feelings, but when that feeling of being alone hit him like a ton of bricks, the reason came. Why was he so fucking alone? Alan. Alan dead. Alan gone from the world. No more Alan. Never, ever, no forever, and no fucking together.

So, Edgar stopped with everything. He turned his back to it all. Why was he to carry on? After everything he had done, protecting those who, half of them, didn't even fucking deserve it. After every little thing he done, it was all a fucking waste. They didn't deserve it, god could go fuck himself, because he wasn't doing his shitty work. He quit. Just the one thing, the one thing that meant everything, and he had taken him away. He didn't deserve his help, didn't deserve him to protect his children. Edgar didn't care. They could save themselves, he could fucking save them. He had everything, and what the fuck did he have? Nothing, fucking nothing. Alan. It hurt so fucking much.

Fingers curled tighter around the bottle, and a lump formed in his throat. That burning, bubbling, rage appeared, and his eyes lit up with fire, with a burning, deep, hate. How he hated, how he hated them fucking all. It was brought to his lips and he tipped it back, feeling it burn as he gulped and gulped and gulped. Alan came, Edgar stopped, and his eyes glinted.

Fuck off he thought and continued drinking, pushing it all away.

Edgar was dying inside, and it was ripping him to pieces. Edgar Frog was a waster, but Alan was gone, and he didn't know how he was going to survive without him. It just hurt, just hurt, and hurt, and hurt. He needed Alan so fucking badly, but he had been snatched away from him, and it was never going to get better.

Edgar had died inside.


End file.
